The Billionaire's Doomed Wife Refuses the Script

Pain dragged Maren Beaumont awake. For one disorienting second, she thought she had fallen asleep at her desk again. Then cold marble pressed against her bare feet. Steam clouded the enormous bathroom. Water dripped somewhere behind her, steady and hollow, while the sharp sting in her wrist sent a pulse of alarm through her body. Maren looked down. A strip of white towel was wrapped around her wrist. A small stain had already spread through the fabric. Her breath caught. This was not her apartment. Her apartment did not have black marble walls, gold fixtures, or a bathtub large enough to host a small dinner party. More importantly, the face staring back at her from the fogged mirror was not hers. It was younger. Delicate. Frighteningly beautiful. And painfully familiar. “No,” Maren whispered. Memory crashed into her all at once. The novel she had stayed up reading. The missing Beaumont heiress. The adopted daughter who had taken her place. The secret boyfriend who had pretended to be poor. The cold billionaire husband who barely appeared in the story. And the foolish supporting character named Maren Beaumont, whose entire purpose had been to suffer so the original heroine could have a dramatic romance. Maren gripped the edge of the sink. She had not simply woken up in someone else’s body. She had woken up inside a novel. Worse, she had become the woman with the most humiliating ending in it. The woman whose life she had inherited had been found by the Beaumont family only two months ago. She was their biological daughter, lost as a child and raised far from wealth. By the time they brought her home, Elise Beaumont had already spent years as the family’s cherished princess. There had been no room left for the real daughter. Before returning to the Beaumont family, Maren had secretly dated Dominic Sinclair. Dominic had told her he was struggling financially. He let her pay for meals, cover his rent, and hand over most of her salary while promising that one day he would give her the life she deserved. The entire relationship had been a lie. Dominic was the heir to the Sinclair fortune. He had never needed her money. He had only dated her because she resembled Arabella Westwood, the woman he actually loved. And Arabella had just returned. The Beaumont family, meanwhile, had forced Maren into an old marriage agreement with Lucian Ravenscroft, the most powerful man in their world. Betrayed by Dominic. Rejected by her family. Married to a stranger. The woman before her had broken. That was where the novel’s tragedy began. Lucian discovered her injured, assumed she hated the marriage, and never trusted her afterward. Her family blamed her for embarrassing them. Elise used the scandal to move closer to Lucian. Dominic continued dragging Maren back whenever he fought with Arabella, using her jealousy to manipulate the woman he truly wanted. Eventually, he convinced Maren to steal confidential files from Lucian’s company. Lucian divorced her. The Beaumonts abandoned her. She was arrested, while Dominic and Arabella reunited and lived happily ever after. Maren stared at her reflection. “A prison sentence,” she muttered. “For a man who made her pay for his lunch.” Absolutely not. She did not care how romantic Dominic and Arabella’s tortured love story was supposed to be. She was not sacrificing her freedom so two spoiled heirs could discover their feelings. First, she had to survive tonight. She unwound the towel just enough to check the injury. It needed attention, but it was not life-threatening. She cleaned it carefully, wrapped it again, and forced herself to breathe. Lucian could not learn why the original Maren had fallen apart. Not yet. If he believed she despised the marriage, she would lose the only protection she currently had. The Beaumont family did not love her. Dominic had already betrayed her. Lucian Ravenscroft might be cold, but he was predictable. Powerful men with rules were safer than affectionate liars without any. Maren had just secured the fresh bandage when footsteps sounded outside. She froze. The bathroom door opened. A tall man stood in the doorway. Dark suit. Broad shoulders. Severe features cut with impossible precision. He looked like someone who had never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed. Maren knew him immediately. Lucian Ravenscroft. Her husband. He was not supposed to return from his overseas trip until later. The plot had already begun moving against her. His gaze dropped to the bandage around her wrist, then swept once across the disordered bathroom. He did not shout. He did not accuse her of anything. That somehow made him more intimidating. “Do you need a doctor?” he asked. His voice was low and controlled. Maren’s mind raced. “No.” One of his eyebrows lifted. She forced herself to continue. “I slipped. Something broke, and I caught my wrist on it.” Lucian glanced around the bathroom. There was no visible broken object. Maren resisted the urge to close her eyes. “That explanation sounded more convincing in my head.” For the first time, something shifted in his expression. Not amusement. Not quite. Just attention. “Did someone hurt you?” “No.” “Do you need to go to a hospital?” “No.” She looked at the bandage. “I need five quiet minutes and a chance to pretend this evening never happened.” Silence settled between them. Lucian studied her with dark, unreadable eyes. The Maren everyone remembered had been quiet, withdrawn, and visibly miserable since the wedding. The woman in front of him had just given him an impossible explanation, admitted it was terrible, and asked him to ignore the entire situation. He should have been suspicious. He probably was. But he did not press her. Instead, he stepped away and returned a moment later with a medical kit. He placed it on the counter between them. “If the bleeding continues, Arthur will call the doctor.” “I can handle it.” “That was not a question.” Maren looked up. His face remained impassive, but his tone left no room for argument. “All right,” she said. “If it gets worse, I’ll tell Arthur.” Lucian gave a single nod. His gaze lingered on her for another second. There was no warmth in it. No attraction. No anger either. Only assessment. To him, she was a woman chosen through an old family agreement. A legal wife, not a romantic partner. As long as she behaved with basic discretion and did not damage the Ravenscroft name, he would give her a respectable life. The original novel had treated him like a convenient obstacle between Maren and Dominic. Standing this close to him, she could not understand how. Dominic was still waiting for permission to inherit his family company. Lucian had built an empire before most men his age finished deciding what they wanted to do with their lives. And yet the original Maren had thrown all of this away for a man who had borrowed money from her while wearing a watch worth more than her yearly salary. Lucian turned toward the door. “You have no obligations tonight,” he said. “Rest.” “Lucian.” He stopped. Maren tightened her fingers around the edge of the counter. “Thank you.” His eyes returned to her face. “You are my wife. Basic care does not require gratitude.” Then he walked out. Maren stared after him. Cold. Distant. Probably dangerous. Still the most reasonable person she had met in this world. She looked down at the ring on her finger. This marriage was not a love story. Fine. It could be a contract. She would respect Lucian’s boundaries, perform her public duties, rebuild her career, and stay far away from Dominic Sinclair. If the marriage eventually ended, she would leave with money, freedom, and no criminal record. A perfect plan. Her phone lit up on the counter. The name on the screen made her newly improved mood disappear. Dominic Sinclair. His message read: I’m at Nocturne Club. You have ten minutes to get here. Don’t make me come looking for you. Maren stared at it. Then she read it again, just to confirm that no sane interpretation had escaped her. It had not. A memory surfaced. The old pattern returned in a flash: Maren rushing across the city whenever Dominic called. Dominic’s friends laughing at her cheap clothes. Dominic letting them mock her while he sat back and enjoyed being adored. Arabella had returned, yet he still expected Maren to crawl to him on command. Ten minutes. As if she were a servant. As if he had not lied to her for months. As if she were not married. Maren’s gaze moved to the laptop on the bedroom desk. A slow smile touched her lips. “No,” she said softly. “I think you should learn what it feels like to wait.” At Nocturne Club, Dominic Sinclair checked the time for the fourth time in three minutes. The private lounge was crowded with men from families almost as wealthy as his. Music pulsed through the walls. Expensive liquor covered the table. Maren’s seat remained empty. One of his friends laughed. “You gave her ten minutes? That’s cruel. She’s probably running through traffic right now.” “She’d crawl here if Dominic told her to,” another said. “Why wouldn’t she? He’s the best thing that ever happened to her.” Someone leaned back with a smirk. “She should be grateful he noticed her at all. She’s nothing compared to Arabella.” Dominic said nothing. He rarely defended Maren. There had never been a reason to. No matter what his friends said, Maren always came back. She forgave every canceled date, every unanswered message, every lie. She loved him too much to leave. Ten minutes passed. Then twelve. Dominic’s jaw tightened. “She’s testing me,” he said. His friends exchanged glances. “Maybe she chose her husband.” Dominic’s expression turned cold. “Maren doesn’t want Lucian Ravenscroft.” He knew that. She had cried when the Beaumont family arranged the marriage. She had promised Dominic that nothing would change between them. She belonged to him. His phone finally rang. A satisfied smile touched his mouth. He answered on speaker. “Hello, Maren.” No response. Only a faint rustle from the other end. Then a breath. Low. Intimate. The men around him went silent. A stranger’s voice slid through the speaker. “Baby, one more time?” Dominic went perfectly still.